


Automata

by Whyistheskyblue



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, Police Brutality, Science Bros, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:56:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whyistheskyblue/pseuds/Whyistheskyblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://alassa.deviantart.com/art/League-of-Avenging-Gentlemen-307538872">League of Avenging Gentlemen</a> Inspired by this lovely fanart.<br/>Steampunk!AU in which Tony and Bruce make toys; Steve is a police officer/war veteran; Thor is a minor noble from another country; Clint and Natasha are, well, Clint and Natasha; and Loki might be the bad guy. But it could be Victor Von Doom. Nobody is sure just yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Tony Gets Arrested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note to people who have been reading my series [You Can Be My Compass](http://archiveofourown.org/series/49123) \-- I'm not done or giving up. School has been crazy, and I haven't liked anything I've written. I feel like my usual suspects deserve better than what I've been producing. I have no idea where this came from, but lets all hope it gets me back into writing, shall we?

Steve Rodgers shifted on the doorstep, wondering if he should knock again or simply let himself in. He sighed and pulled his jacket closer, knocking against the iron door for the third time. The cold stung his knuckles despite the thick gloves he wore. 

“Hello?” A tired voice asked, muffled though the door. Steve heard a mechanical whirl, a faint pop, and a click before the door swung open. Steve blinked. The exhausted man in front of him was not Anthony Stark. 

“I'm looking for Mr. Stark.” He explained to the man he hoped was a butler. He didn't look like a butler. His curly hair was pulled into a short pony tail, a few wisps escaping to poke around the edges of welding goggles. His white shirt was untucked over leather pants, which were in turn tucked into high boots. A tool belt was slung around his slim hips. 

“He's working.” The man replied shortly. His wire framed glasses glinted in the dim lights, hiding his eyes from Steve despite the fact his chin was turned stubbornly up so he could look the soldier in the eye. 

“This late?” Steve raised an eyebrow. 

“If it's too late to be working why are you here?” The man pointed out, cocking his head. A smile ghosted around the corners of his mouth. 

“Bruce.” Another voice called from inside. Another man appeared behind the first. “Who is it?” Anthony Edward Stark looked exactly like the man in the pictures, and yet nothing like him at all. Dressed similarly to his companion, his hands were covered in grease that left dark smudges on the hips of the other man as he poked his head over Bruce's shoulder. Steve hid a laugh when he saw him go up on his tip toes to get his chin high enough. 

“Captain Rodgers.” He tipped his hat in greeting. “I have some questions to ask you, if you're not too busy.” He let his words trail away as a question, fighting to continue looking the man in the eye rather than allowing his gaze to travel up to the flashing brass on his goggles. 

“I don't talk to press.” He said dismissively. “And do you have any idea what time it is?” 

“I'm not press, Mr. Stark. And I have a warrant, if that's needed.” He dug the paper out of his pocket, holding towards the men. Bruce took it with surprisingly gentle hands. 

“Mr. Stark doesn't like be handed things.” He explained shortly, passing it over to Tony who scanned it. 

“Fine.” The inventor answered shortly, moving so that Bruce could step back and allow the other man in. “Take him to the drawing room.” Steve followed the man (whom he was less and less sure was a butler) down the dim hall. Tony had disappeared somewhere with a muttered promise to be back “in just a minute.” Bruce rested his hand on the knob for a moment before twisting, a faint click signaling the unlatching of a lock. He settled himself comfortably on the loveseat, looking at expectantly at Steve. 

“If I may ask,” Steve stumbled, watching in amazement as the man pressed a button and the lanterns flared to life. 

“Yes?” The man raised an eyebrow, his face unreadable. Steve blinked, before remembering his question. 

“What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Stark?” A faint blush burned in his cheeks. The man unfastened his tool belt and draped it over the back of the loveseat. 

“Dr. Banner is my companion.” Tony answered from the door, putting a slight emphasis on the word 'doctor'. He set a silver tray on the low table. “Two bachelor scientists, in need of intellectual companionship. We share the lab down stairs.” The comfortable way the inventor settled next to the doctor made Steve think their relationship was more than 'intellectual'. 

“What brings you to us this late in the evening, Captain?” Bruce asked, leaning forward to fix a cup of coffee. 

“There's been a recent string robberies in the Upper West Side.” Steve began, unsure how to continue. The idea someone as wealthy as Mr. Stark was stealing felt ridiculous, but he was the only one – “They're pulled off by highly advanced Automatons.” He blurted. 

“And you want me to, what exactly?” Tony's voice was emotionless. Bruce had stilled, his knuckles white around the china cup. 

“I'm here to arrest you, Mr. Stark.” Steve whispered. Bruce's tea cup exploded, his face still blank. Steve flinched backwards, throwing an arm up. 

“Bruce, baby.” Tony murmured, pulling the other man close. “It'll all be okay.” He turned to Steve. “You came all the way down to a toy shop in Chelsea in the middle of the night to arrest me? Seriously?” The Captain's face flushed. 

“If you'd be so good as to come with me, Mr. Stark.” Steve muttered. Tony placed a careful kiss on Bruce's temple, leveling a 'try me' glare at the other man when he was done. 

“I'll just get my coat.” Tony stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm relatively certain there's a scientific study that proves the more kudos/comments someone gets the faster they work. ;)


	2. In Which the Hawk and the Widow Dance

Clint moved silently through the brightly lit ballroom, headed towards his partner. Her red hair set her apart from the crowd, making her easy to track through the crowded space. She had led the mark to a dimly lit balcony, flirting easily and resting one hand on his elbow. The emerald of her dress seemed black in the half light. He hung back, catching wisps of their conversation. 

“Your work seems so fascinating.” Natasha fluttered, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You simply must tell me more about it.” 

“I'm mostly doing work with the military. Big, very important contracts.” Hammer puffed his chest out. “Our most recent project is a gun that – ” Clint tuned the man out. He had suffered the misfortune of working with Hammer Tech before. The only reason the man was getting any work was because Stark was out of the business. He let the man prattle on for a bit before deciding to save Natasha. 

“Natalie dear, there you are.” Clint strode onto the balcony. “I'm been looking for you everywhere.” 

“Charles, this is Mr. Hammer, of Hammer Crafting. He was just telling me about his latest projects.” Natasha slid closer to the man. “He is simply fascinating.” 

“Oh, I wouldn't say that.” Justin protested, jumping a little when Natasha slid her hand down from his lower back. 

“Now don't be modest, Mr. Hammer.” Natasha trilled, squeezing. 

“Quite the charmer you have on you hands, Mr. Smith.” The inventor smiled tightly, attempting to worm away from Natasha. 

“I'm afraid you've misunderstood, Mr. Hammer. Natalie and I are simply very good friends.” Clint told him with a warm wink. “But she did promise me this dance, and if I could just have her for the moment I'll return her to you.” 

“See you soon, Mr. Hammer.” The spy called over her shoulder. She allowed Clint to lead her gracefully into the dance, the two spies moving like they had been trained to, gracefully but not so well as to draw too mach attention to themselves. Natasha slotted perfectly against Clint, just tall enough to see over the top of his shoulder while not blocking his view behind her. 

“That was a bust.” He murmured into her ear. 

“He knows something.” She smiled back, spinning away for a second. “And I took this from him.” She pressed a metal cylinder into his palm when she returned. 

“But mostly harmless?” Clint asked. 

“Small potatoes in what ever game he's playing.” She agreed, curtsying as the song ended. 

“I suppose I should return you, then.” Clint grinned, looping his arm through hers. The couple wove between party goers, Clint pausing a moment to grab three champagne flutes. Hammer had left the balcony. “You must be losing your edge, Widow.” Clint teased, passing her a flute. 

“How dreadfully unfortunate.” She deadpanned back, taking a sip from the finely cut crystal. 

“I hope that's all Mr. Coulson has to say.” Clint replied, moving into the shadow so he could climb over the balcony. Natasha's face lost its color as she moved to follow, swiftly unlacing the skirt and dropping it over the edge. I crumpled on the ground like a crushed flower. 

“Let's hope.” She muttered, jumping down after it.  


  


“Are you trying to tell me Hammer just walked away?” Phil asked the two agents in front of him, standing like chastened school children. 

“Yes, sir.” Natasha mumbled, not looking up from the floor. She was all but scuffing her toes on the ground and chewing her lip. 

“Where were you?” The senior agent asked. 

“Dancing, sir.” Clint whispered. 

“Speak up. I can't hear you.” Coulson snapped. 

“I said we were dancing, sir.” The archer moved to parade rest. “It was my fault, sir. I interfered with her.” 

“It wasn't a failure. We got this.” Natasha held out the brass cylinder. It glittered dully between them. 

“How did you?” Clint spluttered, hand going into his pocket. The spy stuck her tongue out at him. Coulson extended a hand, allowing Natasha to place it gently in his palm. The emblem of the rebel faction they were fighting glinted when he moved it under the gas light. 

“Not a complete failure, but not a complete success. You'll still have a punishment.” The two agents looked at each other, too experienced to allow their distress to show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudods' feed the monster.


	3. In Which Things Begin to Fall Apart

The walk to the precinct was interesting, for lack of a better word. Chelsea, as pleasant as it was during the day, became dangerous in some areas when the sun went down. 

Tony seemed at ease as he meandered down the street. Drunk college students greeted him by first name as they stumbled up 8th Avenue to their dormitories. A group of working girls on the corner of 26th street (some trying to make money off the college students, some trying to pay for college) giggled and waved as he passed. He winked back, tipping his hat politely. He shrugged when Steve gaped. 

“Bruce gets it. And it's good for our cover.” The words were a thinly veiled “no one will ever believe you”. 

“How did you and Dr. Banner meet each other, if I may ask.” Steve questioned, not quite looking at the inventor. 

“It was a lecture back in the day. I was still making weapons, Bruce had just gotten back from India. He needed somewhere to stay besides the Gentleman's club we were both member of, Diogenes, if you've heard of it.” Steve shook his head no. “Well, he had been living there for a few weeks and I offered up my spare bedroom. We were acquaintances, and then friends, and then what we are now.” The walk to 35th street passed quickly, the two men native New Yorkers and thus used to trekking around the city. Steve stopped half a block away, catching Tony by the sleeve of his coat. 

“I'm afraid I have to cuff you now, Mr. Stark.” Steve muttered. 

“Don't worry, Captain.” The inventor forced a grin. “You're hardly the first man to give me jewelry.” 

  


Bruce remained frozen on the couch long after Tony and Steve had left. Blood dripped down his fingers where a large piece of china had cut his hand, staining the rug beneath him. If Tony were here he would laugh and tell Bruce the rug was an affront to interior design everywhere and he preferred wood floors anyway. But Tony wasn't here. Tony wasn't here and Bruce didn't know what to do. So he sat in the dark until the sun began to filter through the windows in water color hues and Jarvis came and tried to lead him to bed. 

“Tony is in jail, Jarvis.” His voice cracked on the word. 

“There's little you can do for him until they let him out or post bail, Dr. Banner.” The older man rubbed little circles on Bruce's shoulder. “And you can do even less exhausted. Besides,” The man smiled, “It's hardly his first night in jail.” 

“That doesn't make me feel better.” He moaned around a smile. This time, he allowed the butler to lead him to his room and climbed, still clothed, into the bed that smelled like Tony. 

  


“I'm going to kill him.” Natasha grumbled, adjusting her apron. She hated kitchen duty, if only for the fact that most of the men where sexist assholes. She stirred the pot of stew on the stove and considered adding something deadly to give the men who harassed her most. It would serve them right for crossing the Widow. 

“What'cha cooking?” An agent leaned against the counter, smirking at her. His body language was relaxed and authoritative. Natasha resisted the urge to spit profanities at him. 

“The meals are posted on the schedule.” She replied shortly. 

“That's not what I asked.” He hopped up to sit on the counter. “I asked what you were cooking.” Natasha ignored him, stirring non lethal spices into the soup. He swung his feet like a child, smiling at the a-rhythmic thumping he created every time his boots hit the wall. Natasha ignored him, pulling a long slim knife from the drawer. His feet stuttered a moment before she began to cut carrots, the blade glittering dully. 

“So what did the famous Widow do to get regulated to KP?” He asked, watching her peel potatoes. “Or did management finally decide to put you in your proper place?” The agent never saw Natasha move, but people in the hallway could hear him screaming in the hall outside the door. 

  


Clint scowled at the group of junior agents. They were chatting comfortably, making no attempt to find their missing instructor. Knocking an arrow he aimed into the middle of the cluster, releasing the tension before dropping after the arrow. Several of the agents clapped when he rolled neatly to his feet. 

“All of you would be dead right now.” He snapped at them. “You must be constantly aware of your surroundings.” 

“Sir!” One of the students protested. 

“Do you have something to say, junior agent?” Clint asked, stopping in front of the girl. 

“That wasn't really fair, sir.” She pouted, flicking a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder. 

“What is your name, junior agent?” The archer asked. 

“Marisol, sir.” Suspicion flickered in her eyes. 

“Marisol would you be so kind as to step over to that wall?” He gestured to the padded practice wall. “Now class,” he began conversationally. “Marisol has decided my actions today were 'unfair'”. He knocked an arrow. “Does anyone agree with her assessment?” He loosed the arrow, hitting right above the frightened teens shoulder. Silence greeted his question. He knocked and and loosed another arrow, this time not looking at his target. Marisol let out a squeak. 

“No, sir.” The class mumbled in unison. 

“Are you sure?” This arrow hit above the Marisol's head. The junior agent fainted, sliding down the wall. 

  


“Would you like to tell me, Agent Coulson, why I have one perfectly good field agent in the infirmary with a severed Achilles tendon, and a group of traumatized junior agents?” Nick Fury glared at the senior agent through his one good eye. 

“Well, sir. Clint and Natasha were being punished for sub-par performance on their most recent mission.” Coulson deadpanned, sipping his scotch. 

“So I get an entire traumatized base to deal with? You realize Agent Walken will probably not be able to resume active duty?” Fury snapped. Coulson raised an eyebrow in reply. 

“He did choose to cross the Widow, sir.” Phil pointed out. “More importantly, did you realize Stark was arrested last night?” 

“I do not need this shit right now.” Fury groaned, rubbing his temples. “Just, get him out of jail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, Comments, Concerns? Voice them below. They encourage the writer.


	4. In Which Bruce is a Doctor, Not a Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I don't know why this chapter took so long to write, but here it is. Un-beta'd, pounded out, cried over.

Tony glanced at the officer questioning him, licking blood off his split lip. The words got lost somewhere in the space between the officer's lips and the inventor's ears. He stared at the hazy overhead light, watching the bulb flicker to a beat only it could hear. Rough hands were hauling him to his feet, pushing him back into the wall. Tony could feel the texture of old stone through his shirt, the jagged edges pushing into the bruises on his back. Lips moved, the sounds faded and jumbled in his ears. He smiled back, unsure why this man was so upset. An open handed slap forced his head backwards, and everything went black. 

  


Bruce sat beside Tony's bed, warily watching the man who had brought him here. He had introduced himself only as Agent Coulson, and told the Doctor he _was_ coming with him. The well muscled man next to him had shifted ever so slightly when it looked like Bruce might protest, quelling the words that bubbled to his lips. 

“Has he woken up?” The agent asked, keeping his distance from the pair. Bruce had taken out two fully trained operatives when they tried to keep him from getting to Tony. The doctor shook his head and rubbed small circles on the inventor's hand with his thumb, never unlacing their fingers. “I'm sorry.” Coulson whispered. 

“Two cracked ribs, one broken. A black eye. Top and bottom lip split on the left side, bottom on the right. Heavy bruising on the back and chest. Sever concussion.” The doctor rattled off. “And all you can say is sorry?” 

“Dr. Banner, unfortunately I have no control over what the police did to him.” Phil said calmly. Bruce sighed and looked away, fiddling with a pen from the bed side table. 

“Where 'm I?” Tony asked, turning his head to look at Bruce. He tried to sit up, stopped by the restraints tying him firmly to the bed. “Why 'm I tied?” 

“You're tied down to keep you from thrashing and disturbing your injuries, Mr. Stark.” Phil answered. 

“What happened?” Tony asked, a bit more lucid. He jerked on the restraints again. “Jesus fucking christ.” He gasped, face contorting with pain. 

“The police.” Bruce answered, wincing when Tony squeezed his hand too tightly. “Do you want a shot?” Tony nodded, unthreading his fingers from Bruce's so the doctor could pour the liquor and untie one of his hands. He silently accepted the amber liquid, purposefully not noticing the way the drink sloshed in his unsteady hand. 

“'m gonna go back to sleep now.” He slurred, blinking blearily before passing out. Bruce pulled the blanket over his shoulders, pausing a moment to brush the inventor's hair out of his eyes. 

“I don't want to know what you gave him.” Coulson decided, reevaluating the mild man. Bruce just smiled. 

  


Tony woke up a day later, Bruce sleeping in the chair next to him. He tried to will his body back to sleep, before he realized why he had woken up. 

“Bruce.” He called, squeezing the hand that held his. “Bruce I need to pee.” The doctor woke up slowly, dreams still half hidden in his eyes as he gazed at Tony, a sleepy smile flickering around the corners of his mouth. 

“Hey, Tony.” He yawned, untangling their fingers. 

“I need to pee.” Tony told him, fingers twitching without being able to grasp anything. Bruce nodded, snapping awake. 

“Do you think you can walk?” The doctor asked, unstrapping the leather cuffs that circled his wrists and ankles. 

“I can try.” He answered, biting his lip as he sat up. The two men shuffled slowly to the bathroom, Bruce supporting Tony with one hand splayed against his hip and the other hooked under his shoulders. He leaned against the wall while Tony took care of his business, admiring the slope of his shoulders under the baggy, too long pajamas. Admiring the way he shrugged and rolled his head, trying to get rid of the residual stiffness. Tony turned, blinking in surprise at Bruce's lust blown eyes. Them he smirked. 

“I think I need a hand here, doctor.” Tony drawled, canting his hips. Bruce swallowed, adams apple bobbing. 

“Bed, Tony.” He said firmly. “No moving for at least another day.” 

  


The door to the bar Steve had planted himself in opened, unleashing a gust of cold air on the occupants. A few grumbled, pulling worn jackets tighter to their bodies. A man in a suit tapped him on the shoulder, pulling his attention away from his drink. 

“Steve Rogers?” The man asked. Steve nodded warily. “My name is Phil Coulson. I need you to come with me.” 

“On who's authority?” Steve asked, eying the man. He could take him in a fight if he needed too, but men like this rarely traveled without back up. 

“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say, Captain.” The man frowned, a crease forming between his eyes. “But it would be better for all parties involved if you'd come along quietly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments support faster writing.


End file.
